1985
by royishere
Summary: The sequel that not even the Party saw coming! Picks up immediately after 1984.
1. Chapter 1

Winston sat, head in his hands. Tears glistened in his eyes. Something within him, some wall had broken and he found himself loving Big Brother.

Or… no. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't Big Brother he loved, but the thought of Big Brother. Imagining himself killing Big Brother, shooting him over and over again. That, he loved. Not Big Brother. Never Big Brother. The wall that had broken within him was merely the last of his inhibitions. _This time,_ he thought, _things will be different._

Winston_ hated _Big Brother.

The tears in his eyes came from laughter now, or perhaps they always had. His shoulders were heaving, looking like the heaviest of sobs, but inside he was jubilant. He had lost his first battle against the Party, but he had survived to fight another day. They had thrown their worst at him and he had survived. Now he could survive anything they sent.

As if on cue, two Party police walked into the Chestnut Tree Café. They scanned the sea of customers, as if looking for someone in particular.

"Winston Smith!" called one in clipped tones.

Winston replied in similarly clipped tones - and by that, I mean he emptied a clip right into the policeman's head with the machine gun O'Brien had given him.

The bar exploded (A/N: Not literally) into excitement and noise as patrons dove for cover. The other policeman had just enough time to spin and see Winston before his head was blown into pieces by Winston's righteous gunfire.

"And for the record," Winston said coolly, "my real last name isn't Smith. It's Churchill, motherfuckers!"

"Winston."

The voice was quiet, unassuming. And yet something about it made Winston's skin tingle in excitement.

There was a man in the bar who was not cowering. He was standing straight and tall, and staring ahead with a steely gaze. As Winston watched, the man reached for his large, black beard and pulled it away from his face, revealing his features underneath. Winston recognized him immediately from the cover of a book he had read once, in what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Emmanuel Goldstein," said Winston. "I'm a big fan of your book."

"Always happy to meet a guy with good taste," replied Goldstein. "Far too few of those these days."

"Well, count me in as one more," said Winston. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

Goldstein looked at Winston approvingly. "You'll learn. For now, though, you're clumsy. Your shots made noise, and the Party will no doubt send reinforcements…."

He peered out the window and contorted his face into a badass grimace. "See for yourself."

Winston walked over to the window and glanced out. Surrounding the building were dozens of Party policemen and what looked like a full company of Oceania's finest.

Speaking of Oceania's finest, Goldstein grabbed a bottle of it off the bar wall and took a long swig. The bartender was too busy looking at him in awe to protest.

"Um, Goldstein," said Winston, looking worried. "I hope you have a way out of this."

"Only way out is through, old sport," said Goldstein, drawing a pistol. "And I always come prepared."

Winston glared at the pistol in disbelief, as if expecting it to sprout flowers from its barrel. "A pistol? All you brought is a pistol?"

"Not quite," said Goldstein with a superior smile. He drew another pistol with his left hand. "I brought _two_ pistols."

Winston nodded approvingly. "Back to back?"

"Back to back," said Goldstein. "And hold on to your ass, Winston Churchill. This could get double plus ungood very fast."


	2. Chapter 2

The Chestnut Tree Café had been an ordinary bar, once. But now, it was anything but.

Within the bar, two badass revolutionaries. Winston "Smith" Churchill, who had been through hell and back at the hands of the Party. He had nothing left to lose after the loss of his lover, Julia. And Emmanuel Goldstein, the mythical, stereotypically Jewish proto-rebel who had stood against the Party longer than anyone could remember.

Outside the bar, at least two hundred armed men, all loyal to the Party that shaped them from birth into killing machines. All of them waiting on the single order that would allow them to charge.

"They're not moving," said WInston. His brow furrowed. He reached for a Victory cigarette.

"Cut that out," replied Goldstein without glancing away from the window. "You can smoke a Victory once you've had your first."

"My first what?" asked Winston, puzzled.

"Victory".

"My first victory? Against all that firepower?" Winston was freaking out.

"I've got this," promised Goldstein. "When I was a Party official, I had access to all the rules of engagement, and I know the first step is to send in some sort of guided incendiary…"

Winston's brow furrows deepened. "I don't see how that helps us."

"Just trust me," said Goldstein with a wink. "I didn't survive as long as I have without learning a few tricks."

Within a minute, a high-pitched whistle filled the air.

"That'll be it," said Goldstein, sounding almost bored with the deadly situation. He raised his pistols and stood his ground in the window.

"Goldstein! Get down!" yelled Winston, but Goldstein stayed put. Suddenly, he opened fire.

The window exploded in a crash as a missile sailed through, only to be intercepted by Goldstein's mighty bullets. The striking bullets sparked on the steel casing, illuminating Goldstein's rugged face. The missile slowed as the bullets hit it and, only seconds after it entered, was pushed backwards by their force into the crowd of Party-allied men, losing altitude as it went.

There was a loud explosion.

"Mother_fuck_er!" yelled Winston, and then he didn't yell anything else because the rest of the enemies were charging him and he was shooting for his life.

He ducked behind a table, picking targets freely as they streamed in. Each bullet was sent from his gun by some spirit of vengeance, eager to exact its toll for what had been done to Winston in the bowels of the Ministry of Love. And then there was Goldstein beside him, keeping the steady stream of fire from his two pistols constant. Then he was gone, leaping away to new cover and drawing the fire of a group of soldiers that had made it behind the bar and were taking potshots that were missing Goldstein, but wasting bottle after bottle of vintage. Goldstein reached out from his cover to try and save one, but the bullets were flying too thick to chance it. The other patrons were absolutely bewildered.

Winston sighted down his barrel and let loose a short burst that toppled a young man with black hair and a big adam's apple. Another man took his place, a blonde with blue eyes and a sneer that Winston was sure he had been practicing. Winston raised his gun and fired.

_Click._

The blonde smiled grimly without so much as a flinch.

"Goldstein! Help!"

"He can't hear you," said the blonde, still sneering (he had been the whole time, even while smiling). His finger tightened on the trigger.

"He can't," said a mysterious voice. "_But I can_."

One quick shot from nowhere and the blonde fell, never again to rise. Winston looked with shock at the new arrival, who was already tossing him a new pack of ammo. Winston caught it out of the air and the new figure tipped him a wink before ducking and rolling behind a pair of disused barstools, pulling out a new weapon along the way.

"Y-you didn't have to save me," Winston stammered, still flabbergasted.

"Of course I did," said the new arrival. "I betrayed you, remember? Least I can do is pay back the favor, try and make things right."

Winston smiled a battle-heavy smile. "It's good to see you again… Julia."


	3. Chapter 3

Winston blinked the smoke out of his eyes and ducked down to reload. Julia, ever at his side, stood to provide covering fire. She was completely fearless, even in the face of the multiple bullets flying towards her, missing her by centimeters. The Ministry of Love had pushed her past such fears.

Julia couldn't afford luxuries like missing. Her shots were cool and precise, meticulously aimed, and always lethal. Winston felt himself falling in love all over again as he watched her fight.

She lashed out with a fearsome high kick that caught the throat of one of the policemen, sending him staggering back into another. Goldstein shot them both before they hit the ground. A soldier fired at her, but she ducked under the bullet and turned it into a roll that took her behind a chair. She kicked at the chair and it shot across the room into an enemy, causing him to tumble.

_She always was good with her legs_, Winston remembered.

He straightened up, fully reloaded, and unleashed a hail of bullets towards the window where the majority of the Party force was entering. They seemed to be ducking back now, scattering-

"Winston!" shouted Goldstein as a massive explosion blew a hole in the wall behind them. More uniformed figures were pouring through, and there was no way the three resistance members could stay behind cover from both sides at once. Still, they turned as if they were one mind, to face this new threat.

A detached part of Winston's mind registered the dubstep that the bar had been playing before the firefight began. It was still playing, but was hardly noticeable over the brutal sounds of combat. At least, until a stray bit of shrapnel hit the volume control, boosting the noise to acceptable levels. A strong beat began to pulse through the room, filling Winston's bones with resolve and a steady _wub wub wub _vibration.

Many of the Proles were still hiding behind whatever solid objects they could find and Winston couldn't help but feel let down by their implicit refusal to stand up and fight. They stayed put as the Party soldiers filled the area in front of them with gunfire.

Winston, Julia, and Goldstein were already gone from that place, ducking to the sides of the room. Bullets slammed into the table they had abandoned, sending off splinters. There were cries of pain and protest from the other side of the room. Apparently, the zeal of the new arrivals had led to some friendly fire.

Winston looked down at his arm and was surprised to find that he was bleeding. He wasn't sure when that had happened. Julia followed his gaze, saw the injury, and looked at him with concern.

"I'm fine," Winston said. "Doesn't even hurt." It actually stung like a motherfucker, but Julia didn't have to know that.

Soldiers were pouring into the room, filling the empty space with bodies and bullets. Goldstein was keeping them back as best he could, but there were too many targets for even his two pistols to cover. One of his pistols _click_ed, and he threw it at a soldier's head in disgust, reaching into his pocket to replace the gun with yet another pistol.

"I thought you said you brought two pistols, not three!" yelled Winston over the din.

"I lied!" Goldstein yelled back.

Julia stood, firing her own weapon at any bullets that threatened to hit Goldstein. The shots impacted in the air and went off at angles, keeping Goldstein mostly safe as he fired, seemingly waiting for something… and suddenly, he dove for cover, pulling Julia with him.

The bass dropped.

There was another explosion, and screams as smoke filled the air. There were many fewer bullets hitting the bar that Winston was crouched behind now.

"A grenade, I presume?" asked Julia, straightening herself. "But all you threw was your pistol-"

"My pistols," replied Goldstein patiently, "are also grenades."

Winston stood up from behind the bar and fired blindly into the smoke. He was rewarded for his efforts by a sharp cry and a volley of return fire. Winston ducked and a bottle of '49 exploded, covering Winston in booze. His jaw twitched in what would have been a wince if he were less badass. _Oh well. Wouldn't be the first time that's happened to me._

It was time to end this.

"Alright, you bastards," muttered Winston, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Time for you all to meet where there is only darkness."

His trusty machine gun didn't know Newspeak, but that only made it more eloquent as it sounded its objections to the lives of those remaining in the room. Together, he, Julia, and Goldstein swept the room of survivors.

And then there was silence, save for the dripping of blood and various alcoholic beverages.

"Well, damn," said Goldstein, looking around at the carnage, the shattered windows, the splintered furniture, and the cowering Proles. "You might have what it takes after all."


	4. Chapter 4

"We've got to form a plan," said Goldstein, pacing. He had been pacing for the past few minutes, sending random glares at random objects that had failed to provide him with the inspiration he needed. Winston took another drag from the Victory cigarette he'd been promised. The adrenaline was beginning to drain from his system, but it was being replaced with a healthy amount of nicotine.

"I've never had the balls to go after Big Brother," admitted Goldstein, and hatred flared in Winston's veins at the mention of his enemy's name. "He's too well protected. But with two sumbitches as balls-tough as you, I think we'd have a chance."

"Then let's kill Big Brother," said Winston with a twisted grin. "That's our plan. What are we waiting for?"

"There's only one small problem," said Goldstein. "He's in the Ministry of Love."

"That _is_ a problem," remarked Julia dryly as she salvaged weapons and ammunition from the army of dead Party soldiers. Now that the Proles had dispersed, the three rebellious Oceaneans were the only living beings in the building.

The Ministry of Love was a towering presence within the city. Nobody was ever seen going in or out of it - there weren't even any windows. But the walls and gates that surrounded it promised swift death to anyone who tried to get in without authorization. Winston kicked a chair angrily just thinking about how impossible getting inside would be. It fell apart.

"It took me four years and two of my ribs to come by that information," said Goldstein. "Before that, I couldn't even be sure he existed. But he does. Oh, he does. And confirming that was the greatest victory of my life."

He brushed some glass off a table and sat on it. "Ever since then, I've been trying to find a way into the Ministry of Love. Winston, Julia, you two have been there and lived to tell the tale. How did you enter the building?"

Winston looked at Julia. She looked at him. They both looked at Goldstein apologetically.

"I thought so," he said.

"There has to be a secret entrance, though," said Julia. "The Party keeps its prisoners inside, and it has a whole lot of prisoners. You would expect to see constant movement in and out of the building, but…" Her voice trailed off as she handed Winston an automatic rifle. Her hands lingered on his for a long second.

"I hate to say it," said Goldstein, "but if we can't find that secret entrance, our chances of surviving an assault on the Ministry of Love are pretty double plus ungood."

"Well, we'd better start searching then," growled Winston. He burned with rage at the very thought of Big Brother. He would search under every stone in Airstrip One before even considering rest. His hate would last much longer than two minutes; it would see him through to the end. But it was not just for him that he would pursue vengeance. It was for everyone in Oceania. It was for the proles. It was for Ampleforth. It was for the memories of Aaronson, Jones, and Rutherford, who had once sat in this very tavern, the Chestnut Tree Café.

Softly, under his breath, Winston sang. It was a song he couldn't seem to get out of his head - a song that he identified with. _Under the spreading Chestnut Tree…_

"I sold you and you sold me," Julia finished, hearing him. "Sorry about that, by the way."

"I never held it against you," said Winston. "I did the same thing. But the past is the past. And the Party taught me that the past can be changed."

"Let's change the past, then," said Julia, taking his hand. "It never happened."

"It never happened," Winston agreed, and he felt a weight suddenly lift from his shoulders. He could see the change in Julia as well, in the way she carried herself. She had felt the guilt too.

"We'll have to relocate for now," said Goldstein, breaking Winston's reverie. "The Chestnut Tree's been shot to hell, and they're all out of gin."

Something suddenly clicked in Winston's brain. "Wait a second." He couldn't believe it. It was so obvious.

Goldstein looked directly at him and Winston felt a small heterosexual tingle in his loins. It almost distracted him from the epiphany he had just had. "What is it, Winston?"

"Give me a hand," said Winston, motioning to Goldstein and Julia. He knelt by an overturned table, where a floorboard had been knocked out of alignment with the rest of the floor. It took him only a few seconds to find the ideal place to grip it, then pull it slowly away from its fellows. Julia and Goldstein, seeing the strain the board was causing, joined in.

_Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree_

_I sold you and you sold me._

Winston and Julia had betrayed each other in the Ministry of Love.

They had sold each other under the spreading Chestnut Tree.

The real Ministry of Love was beneath the Chestnut Tree Café.

The board came away from the floor, revealing a dark hole. Winston nodded approvingly, and moved on to the next, using a broken gun as a crowbar to find purchase. Between the efforts of the three rebels, there was soon a gap large enough to let in an acceptable amount of light. That light revealed a small concrete room with a steel door on one end, marked with the Party's symbol.

"By the ten commandments…." said Goldstein.

Though there was no proof, Winston knew they had found the Ministry of Love.


End file.
